


The Long Haul

by Sirpopeglittertits3



Category: ER (TV 1994)
Genre: Burger Joints, Coworkers to lovers, Eddie Dorsett as a Haughty Idiotic Waiter (again), Eventual Smut, Fanatical Old Proctologists Named Stan, Ginger Ale - Freeform, I wrote a lot of this instead of sleeping, Impromptu Burger Dates, Late Nights in Seattle, Literal Sleeping Together, Lots of plot, M/M, Mentions of Dead Hamsters, Plot, Porn with Plot and Extra Steps, Rating is Probably Gonna Change After 6-8 Chapters, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Together, Slow(ish) Burn, TW: Surgical Conferences and Conventions, They're both clueless hoes up till a certain chapter, This Idea's been kicking around my head for about 3 months, burgers and fries, eventual gayness, gets real gay REAL fast, my brain is fried, sharing a hotel room
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24667282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirpopeglittertits3/pseuds/Sirpopeglittertits3
Summary: Another quarantine concept I came up with in the midst of a mental breakdown. And another ER slash fiction about Benton and Romano. Begins around season 7 or so. Our two favorite surgeons are sent abroad for a week to their annual surgical conference out in Seattle, Washington. After a little while, things get interesting, to say the least. Coworkers to lovers, with eventual smut (will probably be changing the rating after 6 or so chapters)
Relationships: Robert Romano/Peter Benton
Kudos: 1





	1. Exodus

Our story today begins somewhere in the aerospace of North America, about 18 slutty, slutty years ago.

Robert Romano had been staring out the window from his seat for a the better part of half an hour now, watching the clouds drift by, taking occasional sips of his ginger ale. He glanced down with tired eyes at the various landmarks, towns, and highways that lie below. Everything looked as if it were built for ants from this high up.

Really puts things into perspective, he thought, taking one more sip from the sweet, spicy liquid before leaning back in his airline seat, shutting his eyes as they struggled to adjust from the brightness of the outdoors to the dim cabin of the airplane. He rest both arms on the armrests to either side of him, leaning back in the stiff recliner, hoping that maybe, just _maybe,_ he'd be able to catch an hour or two of sleep before that big silver bird would make its landing.

As one of Cook County's _best_ surgeons, the exhausted bald man had the displeasure of being shipped all the way out to Seattle, Washington, in the US of A.

For what, you may ask? Well your emotionally exhausted and morally bankrupt narrator shall explain to you now! Just imagine the next several lines being read aloud to you by Morgan Freeman himself in that rich, comforting voice of his.

Along with beginning in the grungy old cabin of a 00's American Airlines, today's story also happens to take place around a very special time in the lives of a large, yet carefully selected group of skilled, prestigious surgeons all across the country. No, smartass, the basis of this story is NOT Romano, nor any of the other fanatical physicians in this story getting their first period.

You would expect to see that kind of shit on your average fanfiction site, too.

No, _no_. The special time in question has absolutely nothing to do with Aunt Flo and _everything_ to do with the long, sort of boring _surgical conference_ that poor Rocket had been dragged away from his cushy little Chicago home _and_ his dog in order to attend.

With nothing but the clothes on his back...and of course, the two wheeled suitcases he had stuffed with the perfect balance of casual-wear and fancy looking suits that were worth more than some people's cars—our snarky bald hero was thrust into a world of boring small talk with rando-physicians he might _never_ see until the _next_ annual conference, free pens, among other nearly _useless_ complimentary trinkets, and even a brief panel appearance by the hot shot of Chicago himself. All of this, of course, was wrapped up in an all expense paid trip provided by Hell's Pass Hospital all the way back in the Windy City.

Of course, to cut what were already some pretty hefty costs, the _all powerful and almighty Rocket Romano_ had been forced to participate in all of the above alongside another experienced physician much like himself. One of his employees, no less. A certain tall, dark, often times _bitchy_ young surgeon who seemed unable to cope with him being in the same operating room, never mind part of the same travel plan.

"Dr. Romano..." a deep, petulant voice began, trying to get his attention. _Speak of the devil._ He was just about to doze off, too _._ Robert blew him off, though, shutting his eyes tighter in a vain attempt to ignore his lowly companion.

" _Dr. Romano_ ," the voice grew more annoyed at being ignored. The bald man felt a pair of eyes on him, gazing at him with the intent of waking him from some much-needed rest. Reluctantly, he opened his own, giving daggers to the offending force.

"You're taking up my armrest." his counterpart, Peter Benton told him quite matter-of-factly, eyes flicking to the now aggravated surgeon's offending arm before his gaze shifted Robert's own once more.

"You weren't using it." Robert deadpanned, moving his arm to cover more of the rest's surface area as an act of defiance. He glared at Peter with piercing dark eyes, hoping that he would retreat with enough intensity in them and leave him to doze back off, and hopefully dream about something sweet, like the nice warm bed he'd left behind that would've been a welcome replacement to what felt like a rock-hard airline seat beneath him.

The offending surgeon refrained from taking the easy way out and _fucking off_ , though, just like Robert wanted. Instead, he pried further, still allowing his gaze to linger on the other man's tired, dark ringed eyes. They'd both been up since 3 that morning, and now that the time was _finally_ beginning to venture into the double digits, their exhaustion was beginning to show.

Peter was over 6 feet tall, thus feeling like a sardine in a tin can sitting in the adjoining seat next to his boss, and all he wanted was his armrest, God damn it.

"That's because I was in the bathroom. I'm back now, so, _may I?_ " He asked, feigning politeness despite his burning internal desire to shove the bald man's arm right off the coveted armrest and take it all for himself.

His courtesy was not admired, though. Not one bit.

"Well excuse my intrusion, Peter. But you were in there more than 15 minutes. You snooze, you lose." Robert grumbled, closing his eyes once more. Maybe if he couldn't see Peter, he'd just magically disappear, or something.

"For your information, I was shaving my face! I didn't have time last night because I had to get Reese squared away with my sister. And I don't like walking around with a 5 o'clock shadow, _especially_ when almost half the people we'll see getting off this airplane will be attending the conference, and I've heard first impressions—"

"Jesus _Christ_ , what part of this entire exchange tells you I give a rat's ass?!" Robert interrupted, getting about as annoyed as an old bitch named Susan when her little cherub is accused of punching out the class nerd as his school, and the principal just had the _audacity_ to look into it. His eyes opened yet again, narrowed and fiery as he stared Peter down. As childish as it would be, all he wanted in that moment was to dump his half-finished ginger ale out on the taller man's lap, just to see the look on his face.

"I'm just saying, I had a genuine reason! Not all of us live comfortable, expensive little lives with nothing to worry about! Some of us actually have responsibilities to take care of at the cost of our rightfully earned spare time." Peter yapped in Robert's face, giving him an entire ill-fated, yet _unnecessary_ Spiel on responsibility, or something. Robert paid it no mind, glaring at him as if he had two heads.

"Good lord, don't get your panties in a twist! And for _your_ information, the quacks on this overpriced public transport service trying to make the conference couldn't care less about what any of the other attendees look like! After 13 years of being obligated to this damn thing, let me tell you, you could've boarded the plane in a pink night gown and six inch stilettos and no one would be the wiser!" It was, in fact, Peter's first one of these little conferences. Maybe this will be a warm coming of age story about awkward first-experiences, after all.

"And you can spare me the phony story of your little bathroom trip, you know." Robert continued after a brief pause, still refraining from just moving his damn arm an inch to give the taller surgeon some room. In addition to the armrest, the bald man now took up a bit of room on the back of Peter's seat, covering a good inch or two with one of his broad shoulders. Peter himself was scrunched up slightly in his spot, his shoulder flush against his boss's, who just didn't want to give up this particular pissing match.

"You don't need to feel ashamed about using some of our 4 and a half hours of flight time trying to rub one out in there! We're doctors, we both know that kind of thing is perfectly normal." The short man sneered, only flustering his poor employee even more. "Modern research even says it's _healthy_ in some cases."

" _I was not_ —...for Christ's sake, could you move already?!" Benton tried again, mortified slightly by the bald man's suggestion. But Romano still wouldn't budge.

"Not a chance. Now could you just shut up for a good couple of hours? I'm trying to be unconscious here!"

"With all due respect, Dr. Romano—"

They both paused in the midst of this little argument as they noticed a familiar old, relatively short lout approaching them, slowly trudging down the aisle. It was Donald Anspaugh, of course, coming around to our two heroes' seats to do what a lot of annoying ass people do when they fly with people they know and make conversation with them whilst standing _right_ in the middle of the row so no one can get by.

Picking up on the fact that his social interactions were about to go from moderately annoying—and, if he had to be honest, kind of fun, considering he got to antagonize Peter—to utterly mundane, with another one of Anspaugh's boring rants about the excitement of a new conference, the opportunity to reflect on how they've changed as surgeons over the last year, and of course...oh, Jesus, it's all about as bland as a bowl of instant mashed potatoes anyway!

Robert slammed his eyes shut once more, leaning back towards that window again, praying to a God he didn't believe in that Anspaugh hadn't noticed.

"Ah! Dr. Benton! I knew I'd find you on this damn thing somewhere." He announced upon his arrival, leaning heavily on the back of the seat in front of Peter, once again falling under the stereotype of an Annoying, Talkative Flyer™️. In fact, he had to shift a bit as his arm hit the back of some poor fucker's head, who turned and looked at him with a look of pure hatred for having woken them up.

"Dr. Anspaugh." Peter addressed, turning his head slightly to his bald companion, hoping his boss would be the one suffering through most of this wretched conversation. His dreams were dashed as he was met with Romano's "sleeping" form, and what he swore was the very hint of another vindictive smirk on his lips.

"Oh, no, don't wake him on my account! He's certainly got a long trip ahead of him." Anspaugh chuckled, blissfully unaware of the mens' pathetic catfight over a literal armrest not 5 minutes prior. "So are you excited for your first Seattle conference? I know I am!"

"Uh, yeah...yeah, I am." The tall surgeon told him, beginning to wish he'd stayed in that bathroom just a little while longer. "A little overwhelmed, actually."

"Ah, well. I remember my first conference back in 1977. God, I was so excited I couldn't even sit still! The flight attendant thought I needed special assistance, I was jittering so much. I was probably around your age, too, when I was first able to go," Yup. This _is_ a coming of age story about overcoming unseemly womanly problems. "Man, was I nervous on my first day there. It's such a big city, Seattle, it really is. I suppose I was also quite overwhelmed at the time, just like you, but looking back on it, I can see I've truly evolved as a surgeon. Let me tell you a story, you'll get a real kick out of this one!"

Robert had to strain to keep himself from smiling as Peter was sucked into another one of Donald's long, boring...downright _cheesy_ stories about the old man finding himself somewhere he never thought possible, and the pure and utter magic of a surgeon's very first major conference. He even turned his head slightly more towards the window to make sure his boss wouldn't notice his slightly upturned lips and drag him right in alongside his poor, tired subordinate.

And until a flight attendant had to physically lead Anspaugh back to his seat because the plane was beginning to descend, our short bald hero sat there, faking sleep like a kid whose mother just barged into his room to check on him, not knowing that he was hiding his Nintendo DS underneath his sheets with the sound off. He just sat and tried to pretend he was back in his big house back in Chicago, intermittently pausing in his musings to listen to poor old Peter, who periodically gave two or three word responses between bits and pieces of Anspaugh's story, even though he desperately needed some sleep himself.

This was gonna be a long 5 days...

_to be continued_...


	2. Robert and Peter's Package

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all the support I've gotten for this dumb thing. If ya like this story with ol' Robbie and Petey so far, be sure to check out my other ones. They're M rated, much like this one will be in the future, so make sure you've got your parents' permission because I am NOT paying for your therapy. Times are tough enough as it is with this damn beer virus.
> 
> Okay, alright. I'll shut my mouth now. Enjoy chapter numero dos!!

Almost as soon as the plane rolled onto the runway and parked in front of the airport, our two protagonists had broken out into an almost sprint, determined to grab their suitcases from the baggage claim and catch a cab. They did this, of course, with the intention of being able to check in to their prepaid hotel room, thus having ample time to prepare for the obligatory surgeon's dinner set to take place that night in some fancy bistro, one not too far from the conference.

Oh, and they were also speeding away from Donald Anspaugh like two bats out of Hell, preferring the idea of getting eviscerated by a literal pack of wolves than another well-intentioned yet utterly _exhausting_ rant from the elder surgeon. After all, they'd more than likely endure enough of that kind of talk at that damn convention for an entire lifetime.

"God _damn._ I really hope whoever handles the booking for these things didn't skimp on the hotel choice." Robert thought aloud to the man sitting next to him in the grungy yellow cab. It was around 3 in the afternoon by the time they'd made their escape, and after already being up 12 hours, _and_ having spent almost 5 of them cramped up in that airplane, both of our favorite surgeons looked as if they'd been through their 3rd tour of Vietnam. "I can't _stand_ a hard mattress. Or a room that smells like cheap cologne and one night stands. The sheets better at least be clean. Jesus, I feel like I could drop dead right about now."

"Really," Peter replied shortly, failing to peel his gaze away from the tinted window he was looking out of, taking in the small expanse of cityscape passing him by. "You got real quiet as soon as Anspaugh came to talk to us. I thought you'd probably fallen asleep by the time he got around to his second or third lecture."

"How could I have possibly slept with all that _yapping?_ " Robert snarked, a sly smile covering his face, despite his subordinate's refusal to look at him. "And besides, I was too busy listening to you suffer. And it happened all by itself, no less. I didn't even have to lift a finger."

At last, Peter looked at him, giving him daggers through tired, chestnut-colored eyes. No doubt, he was still pissed about the armrest, never mind his boss leaving him to fend for himself in a dull conversation with that fat lout Anspaugh.

"You're a truly _despicable_ human being. Do you know that?" the taller man growled at him, his voice lowered to an almost frightening tone. It was obvious the man didn't want to use more colorful words in expressing his hatred towards the vindictive little bald man beside him. Robert was his boss, after all. But if looks could kill, _his boss_ would have burst into flames right there in that sad, drab little taxi.

Not wanting to die in a fucking taxicab of all places, the bald man took Peter's death stare as a hint to quit his jeering and pipe down for a while.

So instead, he directed his own coffee-colored eyes out the car window, peering at all the glamorous sights Seattle had to offer. The skyscrapers that towered over them on all sides, coming in various shades of silver and blue, and sometimes a glittery jet black. The bustling of the streets around them, which were filled with various people of all ages and types just trying to make it from point A to point B in the blistering cold of mid-November. All the cars that passed him by, ones of all brands and sizes, surrounding him on the busy road as the went on their way, beeping every now and again.

The rather hairy old homeless man he saw as soon as the driver stopped at a traffic light, who looked him straight in the eye while fondling his pork stick underneath battered old sweatpants. He gave Robert a toothy grin before whipping the damn thing out, giving the poor surgeon quite an eyeful before the light changed.

Needless to say, Robert stopped admiring the sights and sounds of the city for the remainder of their ride, studying his deft surgeon's hands, or the gritty floor of the cab, beginning to remember just why he absolutely _hated_ it there. He even spared a glance back at Peter, who had resumed his observation of the metropolitan area he'd be getting used to for the next few days, his hands folded in his lap.

The two didn't speak again. Not until they'd long since dismounted the taxi, which Robert paid for while Peter stood off to the side, arms crossed, still refusing to look at his boss. The tall surgeon exuded a raw energy, not unlike a pissed off teenager who'd been forced to go on a school trip with his parents, unable to enjoy anything on his own.

More than likely, he was pretending his short, bald superior was _not_ in fact only 15 paces behind him through the duration of the long walk to their room. Murphy's law, of course, had decided to slap them right in the face with its huge sweaty balls, and they'd discovered after a quick trip to the front desk that the _elevator_ was broken indefinitely.

Now why is that so bad, you may ask? Well, it's quite simple actually!

Due to hospital administration being unable to do _anything_ right, as well as picking a hotel that _happened_ to be transporationally challenged, our two heroes had to drag their asses up 18 flights of stairs just to make it to their room.

 _With_ roughly 30lbs of luggage carried in each hand.

And after a solid 15 minutes of huffing, cursing, and Romano having to stop _several_ times on account of his short little legs getting tired, as well as Peter fighting off the burning desire to just shove the man all the way back down the stairs with his suitcase and play it off as an accident—they _finally_ got to their suite without passing out or killing each other.

Peter's height-challenged companion shoved his suitcases off to one side of the room carelessly upon entering, tossing himself onto the bed quite dramatically, still panting from his exertions. He lay there, face against the bedspread as if he'd spent the last several minutes fighting for his life in that stairwell. The tall surgeon standing not too far away from the door merely eyed his boss, exasperation evident in his features as he became aware of a _new_ problem.

The bed that Romano was currently dying on just so happened to be the _only_ bed in the room.

"Those idiots handling our budget can't do anything right..." Peter grumbled, already picking his bags back up, preferring the idea of climbing all the way back down to the lobby in order to bitch at the lady behind the front desk like an aggravated soccer mom named Karen, _demanding_ a room with two beds, rather than sleeping next to the _Almighty and Incredibly Loathsome Rocket Romano_ for the next 5 nights.

"What the Hell are you waiting for? Those stairs aren't going to climb down themselves!" He snarled at Robert, who failed to move.

"Screw that. I'm staying here." The bald surgeon declared, his words muffled against the white cotton comforter. "No way I'm doing that again. Not without a nap."

"Oh come on!! Half the time you can barely agree with me on a course of treatment, now you're saying you wanna sleep with me?!" The tall surgeon whined, before realizing what he said. " _Next_ to me...you're okay sleeping _next_ to me!"

"Just as long as you don't bite, kick, or scream, I'm crazy about the idea," Romano grumbled again in response to Peter's incessant griping, yet unfazed by his word choice. "And as long as we don't have to do _that_ for a while..."

Not wanting the displeasure of what he presumed would _literally_ be dragging his boss out of bed just for a lousy room change, Peter set his briefcase down from where he'd picked it up, putting it back near his wheeled carry-on with defeat. He sauntered over to one side of the bed, drawing a surprised yelp from his boss as he plopped down on top of it, momentarily covering one of the man's arms as he leaned back. Robert jerked it out from underneath the man, giving him a spiteful glare before pulling himself up from where he was laying to venture off to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

The taller man shook his head, taking advantage of the time he had to himself after another minute's rest and hopping off the bed to unpack a little. He opened up his wheeled suitcase, pulling out a freshly dry-cleaned suit and tie and hanging it on the coat hook near their door.

Peter sat back down on the bed, taking a moment to pull off the worn sweatshirt he'd thrown on for his long journey. It was sweaty and disgusting now from the drudgerous climb to the surgeons' room, and he tossed it off to one corner, probably to be forgotten until the day they left.

The loud, piercing voice of his boss came back to Peter's attention just as he was about to pull off his trainers.

"Hey, Peter!!" His voice was muffled by the closed bathroom door, which opened after another moment to unveil Robert, now only dressed in his undershirt, navy blue sweats, and black socks as he stuffed his face with Cheez-Its. It was a rather ludicrous scene, to say the least, and the other man had to strain to keep himself from bursting into a fit of laughter.

"Get a load of this! Not only did they fuck up our sleeping arrangements..." the bald man reentered the bathroom once more, only to come back out again, carrying a _literal_ bucket with champagne on ice and a cheap looking silk bag in another hand. Benton approached him partially out of curiosity, but mostly so he could quit staring at him from 20 feet away as if he'd come out covered in blood or something.

Romano tossed the silk bag down onto the bed haphazardly before turning his attention to the champagne bucket in his other arm. He picked a small object out of it, dripping wet on account of the ice meant for keeping the expensive aged wine cool.

" _To whom it may concern,_ " he read aloud from a laminated black business card to Peter, who began sifting through the items in the bag, his eyes growing wide when the first thing he plucked out happened to be a little purple bottle of Astroglide. The tall surgeon dropped the small object as if he'd found a severed finger.

" _Please enjoy our prepaid Luxury Package during your stay, courtesy of Marriot Hotel Services._ I'm starting to think someone's screwing with us! There's even a deli platter back in there, too, but I couldn't fit it in the first armful." Romano removed his gaze from the little black card, sticking it back into the bucket before pulling another small handful of Cheez-Its from the pocket of his sweats. Presumably, he'd gotten them from the little bag of hotel trifles that Peter had now just yanked a pack of condoms out of, staring at them with mortification.

"You having fun there?" He questioned when the taller of the two refrained from answering, his words muffled a bit on account of the crackers in his mouth. Peter shot him another horrified look.

" _This—_..." The taller surgeon began, giving the various items of their _Luxury Package_ another once over. He was beginning to wish Dale Edson had been given his spot in the conference instead. "...this is _too_ weird."

"I don't know. I think it's a pretty sweet deal," Robert answered without looking at him, fishing a bag of M&M's out of their assorted snack bag with benefits. "Apart from the grease and latex, of course. But how could you be mad at free snacks and champagne?"

The strange bald man then deposited himself back on top of their bed, propping his feet up on its surface as he opened up the little bag of rainbow colored candy. He snagged the TV remote off the nightstand on his side, immediately turning the electronic box on to flick through the channels. He reminded Peter of a young child, his boss, spending the first minutes of his stay fucking around with _everything_ he could find in their room before inevitably getting bored, turning his attention to the television to see if his favorite shows still exist in such a different time zone.

Benton plucked the most offensive objects off the bed from where he'd left them, depositing them into one of those hotel drawers that no traveler ever really uses that'd been built into the nightstand on his respective side of the bed. He held the personal lubricant and condoms a good 6 inches away from his body the entire time he was doing it, too, as if he were holding a pair of dead rats in their place.

He then sat down next to Robert on the bed, not quite unsure of any other productive thing he could do upon his arrival, but rather _unwilling_ to force his weary mind to focus on any definitive task. The dog tired surgeon gave his boss another once over through dull, cocoa-colored eyes. He had replaced his Cheez-Its completely with M&M's, stuffing his face with them as he settled on a channel, one that was playing an old rerun of General Hospital. Peter couldn't help but let out a small laugh at the sight.

"Aren't you going to spoil that _big surgeon's dinner_ we have at 7?" He asked with a smirk on his face, watching Romano wash everything down with some gourmet sparkling water that he'd presumably snagged from the bathroom as well.

"To Hell with that. They set up the damn thing mostly for the social aspect. Something about _befriending your fellow surgeons_ and whatnot." The short man informed him nonchalantly, stuffing another handful of the candy coated chocolate into his mouth. "Between you and me, the food there sucks anyway. Drinks aren't half bad, though. Usually, they're strong enough to make you withstand a good hour or two of uninterrupted surgeon talk."

Robert's tall companion focused back on the TV screen for a moment, and on whatever comically unrealistic situation the characters from that old soap opera were thrown into. He reached a hand over with the intent of taking a few of his boss's M&M's when the other man yanked the package away, holding both hands over its opening greedily.

"Get your own, jackoff!"

Peter gave him an amused glare, shaking his head slightly before he pulled himself back off the bed once more, venturing off to grab the deli platter from their _Luxury Package._

_to be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could be a good minute before my next update. Traveling a bit this weekend to make things seem just a bit less devastating. On the plus side, I'll be able to write more during some long ass car drives!


	3. Fancy Surgeon's Dinners SUCK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I am sorry this one is so late. I've had the strangest couple of weeks, and for the life of me, I just could not sit down and focus on writing. Whatever higher power there is has decided to, yet again, yank the rug out from under me and leave me falling on my big white ass. I've managed a broken tailbone from just how many times they've tried that tired old trick by now.
> 
> Alright, alright. I'll quit rambling about my miserable life. Go on and enjoy the chapter!

"I'm tellin' you, Rob. If the guy had just gone home and followed simple orders he'd have been just fine. But _no,_ " a grungy, middle-aged man in a black tuxedo was explaining tirelessly to a very bored looking Robert Romano, who sat, sipping at his appallingly watered-down scotch on the rocks. He looked downright miserable as he internally wished to whatever was out there that he could just fast forward past this entire evening and return to his cushy hotel room to sip wine and binge on complimentary snacks.

But no. Instead, Robert was stuck right where he was, doomed to continue listening to Dr. Jarvik of the University of Mississippi, School of Medicine, 52 years young, graduated 8th in his class and has been serving the good people in the realm of proctology for 35 years and counting...introducing himself to people as all of this under the impression that they _actually fucking cared_...

Where was I again? Ah yes, now I remember!

Our favorite bald idiot and Chief of Staff back at ol' County General, Robert Romano, wanted to _fucking_ kill himself.

"What does he go and do? He decides _to hell with my condition,_ takes a big ol' vacation in some nameless little town off the coast of _Mexico_ _,_ and goes to cool off every now and again by jumping into a series of unregulated, bacteria-infested waterholes!" The sad, strange little physician continued, taking a brief pause in telling his wretched story to shovel a couple of heaped forkfuls of spaghetti into his gaping mouth.

Dr. Jarvik continued on with rapid succession as soon as he had his fill, much to Robert's despair.

"Now, instead of just applying one lousy prescription of topical cream every few hours, the poor bastard had to come in twice a week for _two whole months_ just draining the damn thing!" The tubby man in a pair of small, metal-framed glasses slapped his knee, laughing to himself as he recounted such a predicament. He had a deep, throaty laugh, the kind that produced a sound not unlike a moose about to have rough intercourse with a pickup truck.

"I tell ya' Rob, you ain't _never_ seen so much blood and pus in your life! It was like a volcano, the damn thing! The way it spewed all over the place, sticking to my gloves, even the chart at one point!" Robert took the wrong time to take a huge bite into his ravioli. He had to strain to keep himself from gagging right then and there as a mouthful of once-appetizing cheese filling spewed out of the offending pasta. "I had to use up two emesis buckets just to contain it all!! Boy, I tell ya!"

The suicidal bald surgeon set his fork back down on the table, trying his best not to grimace at the well-meaning proctologist sitting across from him, attempting to wash down his pasta, the story, and just about that _entire_ grotty surgeon's dinner, finishing his scotch all in one gulp. It wasn't nearly enough to make the whole conversation anything close to bearable, though. _'I can cope with shitty food, but once the_ ** _drinks_** _go downhill...'_

"Well, Stan. That really was quite the story." He faked a toothy grin, despite the growing urge to hop up from their table and tell ol' Stan and the remnants of his spaghetti that were currently plastered to his beard on all sides to suck a fat one. "We certainly don't get that much excitement during cardio surgery, that's for sure. For what it's worth, you're an excellent...er... _proctologist._ "

"Oh yeah? Tell that to the folks back in New York! Three and a half decades I've worked there and asked for _nothin_ ', but God _fucking_ forbid they give me a couple week's leave so I can get back on my feet following my _nasty_ divorce. For Chrissake, that wrinkled old bitch left me without so much as a lousy **Dear John Letter**!!" The now fired up proctologist ranted, stabbing one of his meatballs as he recounted the events of his tragically short marriage.

"Oh...Jesus Stan, I'm really sorry to hear—" Robert's hollow apologies were cut short as Stan's voice rose significantly. At least half a dozen of the surgeons that'd been dining at the surrounding tables looked up as the man started to make a scene.

"8 years and the woman's never cleaned a thing!! But now that she's got a clear shot of my bank account—?" Stan interrupted himself as he took a dramatically long swig of his Old Fashioned, tipping his head all the way back as he did before slamming an empty cocktail glass back down on the table. The vibrations from the sheer force of his action caused one of his other empty cocktail glasses to fall and roll off, doomed to shatter on the hard floor beneath their feet.

A distraught young waiter rushed over, hunching over the table slightly to try and calm the proctologist.

"Sir, you're gonna need to calm down, or I'm afraid you'll have to be escorted out of here." Clearly, this wasn't the first time Stan had caused a scene in that grungy little bistro. The poor server appeared pretty used to the man's outbursts, unfazed by the death stare he was given for having the _nerve_ to tell him to calm down.

"Stan, you're gonna have to excuse me for a second, I just— _really_ need to hit the bathroom. Real quick. I'll be right back, though." The death stare now shifted to Robert. Those watered-down Old Fashions really were hitting ol' Stan like a freight train.

"I'm sorry..." Our favorite bald surgeon added quickly before rushing off, afraid he'd end up with Stan's half-finished platter of spaghetti and meatballs thrown right at his fat head.

"Oh, yeah, good goin' Rob!! Just _leave,_ right out the fuckin' door like everyone else!!" A rather flustered Donald Anspaugh took Robert's place in the seat across from the aggravated proctologist, more than likely with the intention of sharing his own marital misfortunes in an act of solidarity.

" _Calm down_ , he says!! She took the furniture, for Chrissake!!!"

It was the last thing the vertically-challenged physician heard from the man as he threw himself past the door of the men's room. He'd had 13 years' experience of suffering through bland conversation and awkward small talk with strangers at the not-so elegantly run _Les Bos,_ but this night certainly took the cake.

Robert sighed as he pulled himself away from where he was holding the men's room door shut with his body, almost as if Stan would come bursting in to finish up their little conversation. He ambled towards the sink with a slump in his robust shoulders, turning on the water as cold as it could go before giving his face a quick rinse, almost as if it'd wash the night's events from his head entirely.

It didn't, though. And Romano was only filled with dread at just the mere thought of having to return to his cruddy, microwaved ravioli and Stan's abrupt, tragic midlife crisis. He picked his bald head up from the sink for a moment, blinking the ice-cold water from his tired brown eyes as he gazed into the mirror.

Inwardly, Robert groaned at the image depicted on the reflective rectangular object before him. He'd failed to catch even five minute's rest back at the hotel, kept up by the excitement of free snacks, and antagonizing his roommate, only to suffer the consequences. With a brief assessment of his dark-ringed eyes and rapidly growing 5 o'clock shadow, the bald surgeon concluded that the day's travels had made him look not unlike a literal fucking meth addict by the time all was nearly said and done.

Maybe he was just getting too old for this. Not 5 years earlier had he been able to hop right off the plane, take his time enjoying the local scenery, and then spend _hours_ at the obligatory dinner getting to know some friendly faces here and there before the conference. Hell, he'd even managed to share a laugh or two with a fellow traveling surgeon every once and a while. All of which he'd be able to do without so much as a yawn before 10pm.

So since _when_ did he start having to pass the time with drunken degenerates like Stan, listening to them prattle on and _on endlessly_ about subjects that either should never _ever_ be brought anywhere _near_ the dinner table or about the more overly personal subjects that should probably not be discussed upon their first encounter. Conniving, manipulative ex-wives and swollen abscesses where _an abscess should never fucking be_ soon found themselves at the top of Romano's forbidden subject list.

All he wanted to do in that moment was to throw himself back out the cheaply-constructed French doors of that wretched bistro, march up the 6 million _fucking_ stairs leading to his hotel room and just crash. It was hardly even 8 o'clock yet, and he already felt like his eyeballs were gonna roll straight out of his skull, he was so tired.

He yanked some lousy one-ply paper towels from a nearby dispenser with just a little more force than necessary before going to dry his dripping wet face with them. The strange bald man's already dismal mood intensified significantly as the shitty paper towels came apart, leaving behind chunks of wet white tissue on his now scowling face.

Robert was really starting to consider faking a particularly bad stomach flu in order to get out of these damn things from now on.

He shoved his fat head back down towards the sink again, washing the papery bullshit from his face quite angrily, getting water all over the counter.

"You having fun there?"

Robert jumped a mile at the rich, deep voice that startled him from his task, one that sent him stumbling away from the sink and against a nearby wall as if he were being violently attacked. Rapidly blinking the tap water from his eyes, he sought out to identify his assailant, half expecting it to be Stan, drunk as a skunk and wanting to take out his marital problems on the poor, dog-tired surgeon.

But as his vision came back to him, Robert discovered that the other man in the room was _not_ in fact a haggard old divorcee about to pound him into a little freckled pulp and leave him bleeding in a _men's room_ of all places—it was Peter, holding out a small blue handkerchief for the bald man to take.

Wordlessly, Romano took it from him, wiping his scowling face down as water began to drip onto his fancy black tuxedo, aggravating him further.

"I take it your night's going about as well as mine..." Peter wondered aloud after a quiet moment of Romano patting down his cheeks furiously with the little blue cloth, glaring at his subordinate, quite flustered at the situation at hand.

"How long have you been in here?" Sure, he'd been pretty engrossed with his thoughts for the last 5 or so minutes, but _surely_ he'd have been able to hear the door open.

"Hopefully long enough for Anspaugh to forget which part of tomorrow's conference he was lecturing me about. God, that man is such a _bore_ ," Peter griped, looking equally as enthusiastic about this whole ordeal. "I swear, if I have to hear him give one more mind-numbing speech about _the importance of getting to know your fellow traveling physician,_ I'm gonna lose it!"

Romano chuckled humorlessly, shaking his head a bit at the thought of his poor companion being tortured perpetually by their superior for the second time in a 24 hour period. The first time had actually been quite hilarious, the bald surgeon mused, but now it was just getting cruel.

"What about you? How come you're hiding in here, washing the night away with tap water and glorified printer paper?"

The bald trash can of a human being thought back to his direful encounter with Dr. Jarvik, shuddering internally, mortified at the recollection.

"Trust me, Peter. You don't wanna know," he said simply, before attempting to give the taller surgeon his handkerchief back, now a shade darker on account of its wetness.

"Keep it. I've got a hundred of 'em," Benton told him, holding up a hand in front of him as if Robert were about to throw the damn thing up at his face. Not quite sure what to do with the soaked piece of cloth, he tucked it away in the pocket of his dark gray slacks, probably to be forgotten until some other inopportune moment in the trip.

"So..." Benton began again, still trying to delay the inevitable in the safe haven that seemed to be Les Bos's empty men's room. "I suppose we should drag ourselves back out there. Before anyone knows we're missing..."

"Yeah...I guess that would be a good idea," Romano acknowledged, looking at the taller man with a look of complete and utter dread for the fate of his night. He was quick to find a like expression on his companion's face, knowing that, despite their differences, they both shared the same exact thought.

Benton put one hand on the door handle with the intention of opening it, but instead let it rest there, _still_ delaying the inevitable.

And, after another moment of awkward silence, Robert piped up again.

"You know what?" he began, determination in his voice making him sound as if he were about to singlehandedly overthrow the government. "Fuck this crumby French restaurant and every insufferable bore in it. I've got a better idea!"

And with that, the strange little surgeon took the door handle from where Peter was struggling to gather the strength to open the large wooden contraption and they both stepped out into the short hallway that led back towards the dining room. The taller surgeon grabbed ahold of Robert's shoulder before he could stride much further towards the main part of the building. Robert turned to face him, looking quite impatient to get the hell out of there.

"Wait a minute, what are you even suggesting? That we just _leave_?" Peter fret, acting as if his boss were pressuring him into robbing a liquor store. "What if somebody sees us?"

"Don't worry about it, _Petey_. Just follow my lead."

And with that, our favorite trauma surgeon and first-time attendee of the Surgeon's Society Surgical 63rd Conference of Seattle—fucking _hell,_ that's a mouthful—was dragged out inconspicuously through the front entrance of that horrid little bistro by the sleeve of his jacket, courtesy of his short, fed-up companion. No doubt, their company for the evening had been too preoccupied to even see them slip right out the door.

A very distraught Donald Anspaugh still sat in Robert's former seat, trying his absolute best to calm an even more distraught Stan Jarvik, who appeared to be on the brink of a serious mental break down.

"Oh, yeah, thanks a lot Don!!" He could still be heard as they slipped past the door, and even a good 10 feet outside of the restaurant's entrance. "This is America, a free society! And when I tell ya' he can't kick me out for being too _disruptive,_ you better believe he can't! You can take that to the damn bank, because God knows I can't!!!"

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throughout the length of my rather long, tedious hiatus I've come to learn that there is no God. Only cranberry juice and COVID...
> 
> Don't forget to wear your masks, sanitize your hands, and not to get hit in the face by any angry Karens fighting you for toilet paper, it's a dangerous world out there kids!


	4. Buck's Burgers

Now that the author has finally decided to upload after another _long_ hiatus riddled with gay porn, unfortunate events, and tubs of ice cream—this next part of our ill-fated, gay little FanFiction takes place not 10 or so minutes from where we left off.

The west coast city of Seattle was dark now, on account of it being well past 8 pm, and the stars above were shining bright, like little expertly-cut rhinestones, for all to see. The skyscrapers shone too, now with a light of their own from inside their towering figures, able to be seen from tens of miles away.

The vast concrete jungle still bustled despite how dark it'd grown, the paths of thousands of traveling city folk littered throughout the sidewalks and on the roads illuminated by the pale, sometimes flickering light radiating from the many street lamps positioned every 10 yards or so.

By now it had grown cold, too, as the night really had a chance to set in, and the already frigid temperatures dropped from a steamy 35 degrees to a miserable 12 degrees, falling steadily. The wind only made the outside air all the more unbearable, blowing at a significant pace, making it feel like the ass end of Siberia in mid-January.

But for the taller of our two humble, surgery-loving protagonists, 12 degrees Fahrenheit with a -5 degree wind chill felt like nothing. As he took broader and broader strides in a desperate attempt to keep up with his boss on the cold city streets, Peter Benton felt as if he may as well be in Florida during a heatwave, his once-useless suit jacket now making him sweat like a whore in church.

After putting a good 10 or 11 city blocks between themselves and that _wretched_ dinner, it was safe to say that our two surgical heroes had made out like prison escapees in the night, all thanks to Stan and his frightening drunken outburst. Evidently, no one had thought better and followed them out, either, leaving them completely unnoticed.

Regardless, the short, bald mastermind of Peter's and his grand escape still maintained a brisk speed-walk not unlike that of an angry, middle-aged soccer mom named Karen, hellbent on speaking to the manager of her local Costco.

The hardened expression of pure and utter determination on his small, handsome face made it so that not he, nor his subordinate following him like a lost puppy, bumped into anyone at all throughout their trek into the heart of Seattle. Any daring soul that'd found themselves in the oh-so _intimidating_ Rocket Romano's path had immediately jumped out of it without a second thought, some even going as far as nearly backing off of curbs and into open traffic in an attempt to rescue themselves from his scorn.

And, around the 12th block or so, Peter had finally gathered himself following their hasty retreat from Les Bos, tripling his current speed to try and match that of his fuming boss in order to speak to him.

"Dr. Romano," he alerted his bald superior, who acknowledged the man's place at his left side with a fleeting glance before staring right back ahead, determined to get _wherever the hell he was taking them_ , and fast.

"Save it, Peter. At least until we've put some more distance between us and that utter _hellhole._ " Robert barked at him, his pace picking up just a little bit more at the mere mention of their previous ordeal. "I swear, it's times like these that really make me regret becoming a surgeon in the first place."

"Respectfully, Dr. Romano, we've already put 14 city blocks between us and the restaurant," Peter told him hastily, wiping the perspiration that'd managed to spring up _in the freezing fucking cold_ from his dogged efforts at keeping up with the bald man. "Would you mind telling me where the hell we're going?"

"You'll find out when we get there." He said shortly and without looking at the taller surgeon.

"Oh, come on! You can't just drag me around this damn city in the freezing cold without so much as an explanation!!" Benton yapped into the bald man's left ear, his voice once again taking on that same old bitchy tone it always had during the many other heated, typically _one_ _-sided_ conversations with his boss.

"God, I still can't believe I even let you drag me into this in the first place. What if somebody saw? Somebody _important?_ "

Peter's incessant worrying had been met with stony silence. Regardless, though, the taller surgeon continued.

"There _were_ at least a hundred or so people at the dinner. Probably _more_. Someone had to have seen us." Benton fret terribly, gazing down the city street they were quickly striding through with a look of slight anguish. He emitted an energy not unlike some nerdy straight-A student who'd been talked into skipping Algebra with his new "friends" to chuck stones off of a highway overpass. "I just hope they don't think I'm just some arrogant little weasel like Edson, skipping out on getting to know some of the other attendees to go out to a bar or something, and drink myself into a stupor. They're probably going to expect me 20 minutes late tomorrow morning, hungover, with a 5 o'clock shadow and another notch in my belt—"

"Oh my God, will you just _stop_ worrying?!" Romano cut in sharply, finally sparing Peter a decent glance, his brow furrowed in annoyance towards the complete and total dweeb accompanying him. "You know, you're really starting to make me wish I'd just gone alone, and left you at the mercy of Donald and all those vile old bores he calls friends!"

"Well for your information, _Dr. Romano..._ " The tall man yapped, unappreciative towards his boss and his constant inability to give even the very _crack_ of a rat's ass about his personal problems. "I thought that at least one of us should be concerned about our reputation out here. It's my first time going to one of these things as an attending, I just think that it's important I leave a lasting impression."

Robert stopped abruptly in his path, the sudden pause in his tireless efforts towards getting wherever he wanted to take them catching Peter a little off guard. The strange bald man turned to look at him, eyeing him quizzically with piercing brown eyes, silent for a few beats.

"I'm sorry, but exactly _what_ part of the last 18 hours or so makes you want to be invited back to this damn thing?!" He asked, his voice raising a bit more than necessary considering their close proximity, making quite a few people to the sides of them stare for a moment as they passed on through.

"Honest to God, Peter. If I didn't know just how much of a proper, good little boy you are, I'd think you were carrying a flask somewhere underneath that jacket of yours!" Robert poked Peter's chest, clad with the smooth, dark gray fabric of his suit jacket for emphasis. He turned away from the man after that, starting once again on his way down the busy sidewalk.

"I'm not crazy about this whole thing either!! I just—..." The tall dweeb cut himself off this time, grappling for the right words to use as a justification for wanting to come back to another of those _ungodly_ conferences. "I'm perfectly aware this thing has been awful from the start. I _am_. But this is my first major chance at really getting my name out there and boosting my reputation, as a surgeon, so that later on down the line—"

But Robert stopped him once more, both in conversation _and_ physically, keeping him from walking any further with a hand on his shoulder. He turned a bit on the edge of the street he'd been speed-walking down, looking at whatever building happened to placed across from it.

Still quite confused from the night's events, Benton followed the man's gaze to a small, generously lit restaurant just one crosswalk away. Obviously a small family owned business, the place was practically a living, _breathing_ stereotype of every little modern American restaurant out there. It was all tied together, of course, with a glowing red sign that read, in large bold letters, the name "Buck's Burgers".

Peter scoffed humorlessly, shaking his head at the simply ludicrous situation at hand.

"You made me run half way through this damn city in the blistering cold," he stated, bemused, if not slightly irritated with his bald companion. "For _burgers_?"

"What? You're telling me you actually _ate_ a decent portion of the half cooked, sorry excuse for European cuisine that was shoved in front of you tonight?" Robert asked, smirking when he was met with a look of slight disgust from his subordinate as he recalled the failure of a meal he had last. "Didn't think so. And for whatever reason no taxi driver I've ever had can ever find this damn place. That, and I figured rushing off on foot would give us a better chance of leaving without Anspaugh trying to drive us back in..."

His explanation was met with stony silence as Peter shifted his gaze down toward the hard concrete of the sidewalk, his expression thoughtful.

"Look. It's either this, or you can just catch a cab and fill up on cheap snacks back at the hotel, all the while missing out on a hot meal that's actually got some quality to it." The bald surgeon tried to persuade him once more, the look in his eyes almost pleading with Benton to join him in that cliché little joint, probably wanting to keep from looking like some sad, lonely, estranged little man, dining all by his lonesome on a cold Friday night.

At last, the taller man shrugged, surrendering just a bit more to his mostly empty stomach, which seemed even emptier at the thought of burgers and cheese fries, than to his boss, who just stood there, practically giving him puppy eyes.

Seeming to light up just a bit at Benton's surrender to his grand idea, Romano gave him a small smile before leading the way through the crosswalk and towards the entryway of his trusted burger joint.

And, as the little bald dumpster fire of a human being led him inside and got them a spot off to one quiet little corner of the restaurant, Peter discovered the place to be as much of an American stereotype inside as it looked from the _outside_.

It was rather brightly lit, decorated with a color scheme mostly adhering to solid reds, blues, and blacks, yet not as busy as the tall surgeon would've thought it to be on a weekend. 80% of the seating they had to offer was either in a booth, or at the rather sizable bar just beyond its entrance. And, naturally, the bar was relatively full, inhabited mostly by a bunch of scruffy-looking middle-aged dudes. They all looked as if they were bitching to their fellow man about the first world troubles that plagued their lives, such as work or the struggle of being married with children as they washed it all down with cheap beer and honey roasted peanuts.

The bartender looked as if she were considering a career change, pulling the same false expressions of interest as Romano when he'd been listening to Dr. LimpDick, or whatever his name is.

Following the Narrator's long, _descriptive_ monologue about a literal burger restaurant, the pair of surgeons sat down in a booth together as Robert immediately picked up a menu, eager to drown the rest of his night in _good_ food and even _better_ drinks.

"Something tells me this isn't the first time you've pulled something like this around here," Peter wondered aloud as he looked at his own menu, any regret aimed towards their grand escape melting away as his craving for meat and pure cholesterol peaked.

"Gold star for your intuition, Peter!" The bald man told him, sparing a quick glance to the younger surgeon over his menu. "Let's just say, this is my go-to whenever I need a quick get away from the main attractions of this damn trip,"

He set down his menu almost as quickly as he picked it up, fixing Peter with a serious look, causing the other man to stare right back as a new thought sprang to his attention.

"It _also_ happens to be my little secret. And yours now too." The strange bald man picked up his fork in an almost threatening manner, as if he would _actually fucking do something_ with it. "You tell anyone about this place, so help me _God_ , I'll take that little rugrat of yours for ransom."

"What place?" Peter asked him knowingly as his eyes flicked to his menu, going back to trying to pick out even a moderately healthy dish amongst the endless choices of heart-stopping American cuisine. Robert dropped his fork.

"The first couple days never really do get to me. Well, at least until _tonight_ happened," he explained to his subordinate, clearly set with his order already after so many years of dining at the damned place.

"You'd be surprised on how keen Anspaugh can be on setting up little get togethers with some of the other attendees!" Robert laughed at the thought of the surprising amount of friends their superior could make in such a short time, leaning back in his seat, sipping at the water that'd already been poured for them when they got there. "Sometimes we go straight from the conference, after hours. He always insists on going to the same grungy little pub, too, the one over on Gardener. Then usually _we_ becomes _they_ when I run off while they're too deep in conversation to notice."

Peter set his menu down, gazing at his boss with a look of disbelief, if not mild amusement.

"Oh come on, he's your boss! And one of _my_ mentors," the tall surgeon nagged him, surprisingly sympathetic towards the old bore. "Would it kill you just to share a _little_ sense of camaraderie with him, just for one night?"

"Believe me Peter, all his friends usually _suck_ ," Robert justified, stealing another sip of his ice water, wincing briefly as the cold substance raped his fucking teeth down to their roots. "That, and the place always _reeks_ of cheap cigar smoke and leather. The drinks are quite good, but I can never get a sip down without wanting to gag."

If Peter was about to say anything to defend his trusted mentor and his shitty friends, he was immediately cut off by an abrupt, _depressing_ presence.

A sad, dark eyed, black haired man in a red apron, black crew cut-tee, and bootcut jeans walked up to the table with a pad and pen. His fabulous ensemble was complete with a black baseball cap that had Buck's Burger's glorious logo printed on it, accompanied with an oversized burger and fries off to one side.

"Hi there! The name's Eddie Dorsett, but you can call me _Fast Eddie_ for short." He had the demeanor of a limp, steamed hotdog. "I'll be taking care of you both on this lovely evening. Can I get you both something to drink?"

"Err...Actually, I think we're all set to order," Robert informed the overcooked rotisserie chicken of a human being, eager to rid himself of the waiter's presence as quick as humanly possible.

"Ah, I see. Keepin' it fast for ol' _Fast Eddie_ here tonight." Ugh. "Well then. In that case, what can I get for you?"

Respectively, both Romano and Benton ordered their meals, along with a pair of drinks they both hoped would be potent enough to rid their minds not only of their respective Les Bos experiences, but also of... _oh my fucking god...Fast Eddie_ and his shitty Staples brand notebook.

When all was said and done, the wretched waiter shut his pad with a smirk.

"Alright. I'll get that right up for ya'," he told the pair with a toothy grin. His teeth were as yellow as traffic lights.

"And, because you guys have grown on me _so much_ , after this, I can fix you up with a lovely little lady named Diamond who works at the intersection of Tenth and Broadway," _Fast Eddie_ allowed himself a small laugh at his own dumb joke. The sound was deep and throaty, not unlike a large bullfrog as it chokes on a horsefly and _dies_. "I bet with a good 50 bucks from each of you, she'll really spice up your night. One round at a time."

The two surgeons fixed their waiter with a glare, signaling that he should probably just walk his sad ass right back to the kitchen and put in their orders. The crooked smile ran away from his face in a second.

"Erm...I should have your drinks out in a jiff..." and with that...oh, Jesus Christ... _Fast Eddie_ was finally, _mercifully_ gone.

"Okay. _He's_ new," Robert told his subordinate, still reeling from their interaction. "I'm almost _sure_ I'd remember a horrid, _unrefined_ little weasel like that..."

Peter allowed himself a laugh, despite the fact that he was still inwardly cringing hard enough from the encounter to turn himself purple.

"He kind of reminds me of Dale."

"Aww. You getting homesick already, Peter?" The short surgeon teased, propping his head up on one hand, leaving his elbow to rest on the table. This put a wry, toothy smile on the taller man's face as he fiddled with his butter knife absentmindedly.

"For Dale Edson? God no!!"

Edward LittleDick came over for the briefest of moments to drop their cocktails off at their table, even going as far as leaving them off to the side of its surface rather than setting one in front of each surgeon, failing to make eye contact with either for even a fleeting second before scurrying off like a skittish deer.

"I guess I do miss Reese, though." He wondered aloud once more, giving a pensive look to the steel utensil he'd been screwing around with as he thought about the young boy he left in Chicago. "I kind of regret not getting the chance to call my sister Jackie and at least get him on the phone to say goodnight. I know he can't hear me, but it'd still be good to hear him on the other line."

"Don't worry. This damn thing'll be over before you know it," Robert assured his employee, taking a hearty swig of his Old Fashioned, hoping that drinking the potent little thing on a mostly empty stomach would make all the difference. Peter still looked quite dejected though, obviously beginning to miss his family back at home. His family, and his own big warm bed, which did _not_ happen to be several floors off the ground _without_ any decent fucking elevator to carry him there after a long day's travels.

"And I know how you feel. I really do," Robert told him sincerely as he took another lengthy sip from his drink. "I just can't stand to leave my girl at home, alone, with just a few visits from the petsitter to keep her company. Maybe tomorrow I could convince her to put Gretel on the phone for me."

Peter set his head on his hand then, much like Romano had done earlier, with his elbow propping him up on the table. And he was hiding his mouth with his hand, too, in a vain attempt to make it out like he really was just resting his head in his hand. Really, though, the man across from him could tell he was trying his damnedest not to bust out laughing at him.

"What?!" He couldn't hold back his laughter any longer as he drank in the sight of Robert's offended expression, his cheeks reddened slightly on account of just having exposed his feelings towards his beloved pet. To a _colleague_ , no less. One often under the strict belief that the _Prestigious and Almighty, Unfeeling Rocket Romano_ didn't give a damn about anything but himself and his Jag.

"Nothing, nothing...it's, um..." Peter stammered, still struggling to control the fit of giggles he'd since erupted into, the broad smile on his face quite a contrast from just a few moments ago, when he'd been lamenting about missed nights with his family. "I'm sure she'll be _very_ glad to hear from you."

"Oh come on! Don't tell me you've never had some furry, four-legged creature to come home to!!" He defended himself against the other surgeon's ruthless disparagement, crossing his arms.

"I used to, in the 5th grade!!" Benton told him, a few chuckles still bubbling up from the depths of his throat. "A grey hamster named Bubbles my dad got me as a present for acing my math test. Damn thing got loose one day and jumped from my second-floor window!"

The bald surgeon laughed, his face painted with disbelief. "You've got to be kidding!!"

"I cried about it for almost a week straight." The tall dweeb confessed, shaking his head at the disturbing childhood memory.

"I suppose it would've been far less traumatizing if the neighbor's cat hadn't run off with his mangled body." Peter let his eyes meet his boss's own dark, coffee stained ones. "So to answer your question, _no,_ I never really _did_ have all that good of an experience with anything four-legged!"

Robert's shoulders shook as hearty, _genuine_ laughter overtook his robust form. It was a rare sight to behold, and the tall surgeon across from him took it in, quite awestruck. Peter couldn't help but laugh with him, his boss's joy proving to be quite contagious from across the table.

Both men's joy had been short lived, though, as an annoying, weasly presence made itself known once again, _this_ time with two plates heaped to their brims with hot burgers and fries in both hands. Almost instantly the light-hearted, whimsical mood about their table died a gruesome death, leaving awkwardness and discomfort in its place.

The middle-aged wretch set both plates down in front of them, shoving each order in front of the _wrong_ surgeon, so that Robert got Peter's skimpy platter of sweet potato fries and a cheeseburger. Meanwhile, the taller, darker physician sulked over Robert's triple bacon cheeseburger with chili cheese fries as _Fast Felcher_ finished up.

"Alright. Now you guys just let me know if you need anything else." He informed the pair, looking way too proud of himself for completing such a simple task. The broad smirk on his face had been just about as charming as a glass of milk that's been pissed in and left in the sun for a good couple of _weeks_.

"If you need anything, _anything at all_ ," Edward HorseShit pointed a thumb at himself, pausing for a painful 5 seconds, the smirk failing to run away from his face for even a second this time. "I'm your guy."

He gave both surgeons a wink before breaking into a strut, making his retreat back towards the kitchen to pick up more food for the other unlucky customers who just so happened to have the misfortune of having him as their server.

Wordlessly, the two men switched plates, their disturbance finally alleviated. _For now_...

"Well, one thing's for sure," Robert noted as he picked up a stray fry that'd fallen off his plate, shoving it into his mouth. "Fast Eddie _really_ lives up to his name."

And so, as the cold night grew less and less young, our two surgical heroes drank, talked, and ate nearly enough to make themselves _explode,_ as one always does when they're tired as hell after having endured a grueling, _never ending_ day in yet another frigid, windy city.

By the time... _sigh_... _Fast Eddie_ came back around to their table with the check, it'd already been half past nine. Really, though, the relatively early hour still felt like 3 in the fucking morning to the pair on account of their travels.

"God...I think if I take another bite I might just perforate something," Benton informed his boss as he finished up paying for his half of the bill. The bald man was leaning his head against his hand again, looking just about ready to spend the night passed out in the seat of his booth like a fucking homeless man.

"Tell me about it..." Romano grumbled, fighting to keep his tired eyes open. He picked his head up a bit then, rubbing his eyes, trying to wake himself up a bit. "Hey, where is that little twerp anyway? He dropped this damn thing off over 8 minutes ago!"

"He's picked a helluva time to lose his touch!" Peter griped, looking equally as weary as he leaned back in his seat, gazing up towards the bright fluorescent lighting of the small burger joint, hoping it'd help him make it back to that damn hotel.

Almost as if on cue, the weasly little presence sauntered on over, plucked the bill from their table before running off again, like a frightened lizard on a busy dirt road, going back towards the register to run their credit cards.

"I'm calling it now," Romano told the taller surgeon across from him as he straightened up a bit in his spot, readying himself for the busy streets outside. "No way in _hell_ are we walking back to the hotel. We're _definitely_ catching a cab, no matter how disgusting they are at this time of night. My treat,"

"No argument here."

 _Fast Ejaculator_ returned with their bill, and was about to jaunt right on back to his business at the sight of both surgeons getting up to leave when he was stopped by Robert, wielding a 10 dollar bill in one hand.

"Since you were such a _fantastic_ server tonight, I thought I'd let you in on a little secret..." he told the inept waiter, quite _literally_ shoving the little green paper in his face. "...about a young man who works at the intersection between Pike and 15th Avenue. Needless to say, with _this_ , he could really spice up your night."

Reluctantly, he snatched his tip from Romano's large, delicate surgeon's hand.

And before the bewildered, microwaved corndog of a human being could even dignify his jab with a response, Romano was already out the door and making his way to the curb to hail a taxi.

All the while his tall companion followed him, still gawking at his audacity to finally give the tiresome, awkward server a taste of his own shitty, _shitty_ humor.

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure where any of you live, but right now, I've just hit day 152 of this whole COVID situation!
> 
> If you guys out there happen to be reviewing this stupid little thing, go ahead and add whatever day you've counted up to, because God damn it, I'm curious!


	5. Strange Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *BANGING A PLATE AND POT LID TOGETHER LIKE TWO POORLY MADE CYMBALS* CHAPTER 5!! GIVE IT UP FOR CHAPTER 5!!! CHAPTER 5, EVERYBODY, WE MADE IT!!
> 
> I finally decided to throw you guys a bone and give ya some ship action, even though we kinda had some in the last chapter with our favorite surgeons' little *dinner date*
> 
> It's nothing major, and certainly nothing compared to what I've got in mind for later on in the fic, but regardless, enjoy!!

It was an extra special morning in the already bustling city on the far corner of Washington State. In fact, it'd been the one that would mark the very first day of the Surgeon's Society's 63rd Annual Surgical Conference of Seattle, an event whose title is _still_ a fucking mouthful, even after another couple chapters.

The sun was rising slowly above the horizon, casting various hues of orange and red across the sky, illuminating everything its rays touched with a warm glow. The skyscrapers populating the heart of the city shone like dark crystals, the light bouncing off them bright enough to burn out your fucking corneas.

The birds were chirping noisily, begging every person who happened to be walking through the streets for food scraps, whether they be going to work, venturing out for breakfast, or in most cases, taking a long, thoughtful walk of shame after a hard day's night.

And Robert Romano, Chief of Staff and Head of Surgery back at the strangely beloved Cook County Cesspool of humanity in Chicago, was just waking up at what he estimated had been a measly 10 or so minutes before the hotel room's alarm clock would sound, harshly reminding him and his colleague that it was time to start the day.

Naturally, the bald man kept his eyes closed against the soft rays now streaming through the curtains, savoring those last few minutes before he had to throw himself back out into the cold with nothing but the clothes on his back, the money in his wallet, and his oversized ego to keep him warm.

And so, he lay there, just taking it all in.

The clean sheets he'd been sleeping between, which smelled sweet, like detergent and fabric softener.

The sound of the warm air flowing through the vent in the far corner of the room, the one attached to the small heater keeping the draft from the windows at bay, and the surgeons' asses from freezing off overnight.

The feeling of the hotel's nice warm bed, making him just want to call in sick to that wretched conference and just _lay there_ for an excessive 3 or 4 more hours.

His fellow traveler, Peter Benton, spooning him from behind...

 _Peter Benton,_ spooning _him_ from behind?!

Robert's dark brown eyes flew open to reveal that the warm breath against his neck, as well as the pair of strong arms wrapped around him were _not_ in fact part of some obscure early morning dream induced from having drunk too much whiskey, but a _reality._ His young prodigy—and, if he were being honest, his constant _rival_ of absolutely _anything_ related to medicine—really _was_ curled up behind him, holding him as if _he_ were a small child and his boss was a damn stuffed animal. The _same_ young prodigy of his that had taken care to put as much distance between the two as possible only the previous night, practically hanging off his side of the bed to ensure nothing like _this_ could happen.

And yet, here they were.

The shorter of the two just lay there, frozen, unsure of what the _hell_ he could possibly do.

To say that Peter was physically close to him would be a _major_ understatement. Robert's assessment of the situation proved the man had his legs tangled with his boss's, and he could _feel_ the heat radiating from his bare chest where it was, flush against his back, warming him through the thin fabric of his black tank top. Hell, he could even _smell_ the brawny surgeon holding him.

The sweet scent of Benton's cologne filled his head as Romano panicked just a bit more, his current situation seeming only more and more absurd as time marched on.

Trying to move slowly and not wanting to wake his subordinate, who _desperately_ needed the extra sleep before his first major appearance at the conference—and, more importantly, not wanting to experience the awkwardness of having to _explain_ their current position, the bald idiot did his best to untangle himself from Peter's hold and get ready for the day ahead, as if nothing had happened at all.

He took his time to pry one arm from around his waist, gently, allowing himself to inch further away from his fellow surgeon.

And, for a few good seconds, it looked like he was in the clear.

Robert had gotten to where he could _almost_ pull himself straight out of bed, and out of his rather _frightening_ situation when, to his complete and utter _horror_ , the man behind him started moving around. He felt all color leave his face at the realization that he'd probably woken the taller surgeon up; and, consequently, they'd have this whole occurrence looming over their heads for the painfully long remainder of their trip.

Surprisingly, though, Peter was still out cold in that Queen-sized bed of theirs. He just _had_ to be, or else he'd _never_ have dared to grab right back onto Robert again, pulling him even closer than he'd had him before.

The bald man inhaled sharply, a look of terror crossing his face as Peter wrapped his arms right back around him, tangling their legs together. He nuzzled the crook of his neck, a shiver being sent down Romano's spine at the feeling of his hot, damp breath, coupled with the prickly sensation of his goatee right against his skin.

Feeling the other man's body heat soak into his clothes, warming him in their hotel room, which still remained quite nippy considering the running space heater he'd already stubbed his fucking toe on _twice_ on his way to and from the bathroom—Robert just couldn't help but relax a little in Benton's tight grip.

Despite his racing thoughts as to how he could possibly release himself without waking the taller surgeon now, Robert felt his eyelids begin to feel heavier and heavier, the weariness beginning to return to his head. He relaxed even more in Peter's big arms even though he still was trying to come up with an idea, _any idea_ , to resolve the matter within a reasonable amount of time.

He came up empty, though, as sleep crept up on him like a child predator does to a young boy in the middle of a busy playground. His colleague's tight hold had gone from being completely and utterly _mortifying_ to strangely comforting.

Robert found himself backing up a bit towards Peter's front, suddenly really craving the feeling of their closeness. The taller man tightened his arms around him just a bit more in his sleep, making him feel all warm and fuzzy inside all of a sudden. The question of just what the _hell_ had gotten into him had been pushed to the far corner of Robert's mind as he brought one hand up to run his fingers up and down Peter's forearm in a gentle caress, moving lazily as he finally shut his eyes once more.

The vindictive bald trashcan of a human being drifted off, already on his way back to dreaming about something, _anything_ unrelated to that godforsaken conference.

He hadn't gotten more than half minute of sleep when the alarm went of with a shriek, about as pleasing to the ear as a rusted fork being scraped against a fucking chalkboard. In fact, it sounded just about as shrill as Kerry Weaver having broken into a full-fledged rant after having her fragile authority "undermined" by some poor soul.

Romano's coffee-colored eyes opened right back up, his heart rate spiking terribly as he sensed the taller man behind him, waking up.

_Shit._

It must have really been only a few seconds, but to Robert it'd seemed like an _hour_ before Peter rolled away from him, pulling his limbs from around his boss and smacking the alarm clock straight on its top. Since the bald man had been so fast to fall asleep the previous night, he'd taken the discipline to organize their God awful 6 o'clock wake up call, setting the box-shaped clock accordingly on his side of the bed.

The taller of the two let out a groan, lying on his stomach now, still almost dead to the world. At last, Robert finally got the chance to sit up and look at him, still quite shaken from the morning's events.

"...Peter?" He'd been completely quiet for a good minute or two now, and Robert wasn't sure whether or not he'd passed right back out.

That, and he seemed completely _oblivious_ to their previous position.

"You can go ahead and shower first," Peter murmured into the sheets, not looking at his boss. "I think I'm gonna need a few minutes..."

Hesitating for a moment, he got up from his spot on the bed, taking care to grab the bag he knew contained his toothbrush, toothpaste and whatnot before padding off to the bathroom.

He shut the door behind him with a soft _thud_.

Romano set his bag on the counter. But instead of going about his morning routine, he just leaned back against the door, gazing at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He swore he could still feel the other man's warmth even then, his strong arms and robust body making him feel safe and secure.

He eyed the tired, confused man in the mirror.

What _was_ that?

_to be continued..._


End file.
